It is whatever you thought happened,
Whatever was placed in your head,
Ominously, questionably.
A place where consciousness ends,
A place where processes are stacked,
And where hallucinations run rampant.
A place where you can catch your breath,
But where you drown in laziness.
A place where a door opens willingly
But another closes just as quickly,
And a curse disperses with dark echoes,
Repeating "this is what it is to be great,"
Latching you on to a set of choices,
Rather than allowing the entire Rolodex.
This freedom—it is a place for sanity.
It is a way for people to run away,
Buffering themselves from calamity,
Hoping that the bog of dark echoes lingers,
Remaining longer than Ancient Rome,
Naively reliant on something temporary
That has already been proven to fail,
Denying that history is repeating itself
As it always has and always will
Time after infinite time like numbers—
Prisoner's names.
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